I Hate Yoga

I Hate Yoga

Recently, I had grown tired of my regular gym routine: go three days in a row, then skip a few weeks. The elliptical just wasn’t doing it for me anymore. I bounced up and down as sweat poured down my face, a sight seen only behind closed doors. As much as I loved running into every guy that I had ever had a fleeting crush on while I desperately tried to hold a plank for more than 10 seconds without popping a blood vessel in my eye, I needed a change.

I scoured the internet for fun, alternative exercises. Bootcamp sounded like hell on Earth. Zumba is great if you are trying to network with the local PTA committee. Spin class sounded like the most pointless shit I’d ever heard of. Isn’t it the point of a bike to go places? I settled for the least intensive option: yoga.

I squeezed myself into my favorite leggings, put on a loose tank to cover the flesh that was pouring out of the top of my pants, and even threw on a hemp headband I had gotten from the boardwalk at home. I looked the part. I was ready to accept the serenity and change my life for the better. Pulling up to the studio, I was confident as fuck (not like that’s anything new), but as soon as I got in there, they sensed I didn’t belong.

There are three types of people who regularly attend yoga classes, all of whom take themselves entirely too seriously:
1. Neo-Hippies
2. Stay-At-Home Moms
3. Hot Chicks

The hippies were there to realign their chakras, the stay-at-home moms were there to spice up their marriage, and the hot chicks were there to show off how flexible they are to someone other than the guys they hook up with. I found a spot in the back corner, unrolled the mat I had borrowed from my roommate, and got ready to zen.

We started with some sun salutations, which were some slow motion arm circles with some calming breathing. This, I could handle. I could imagine it now: I’d start waking up at 5 AM, greeting the sun completely naked with my rock hard abs glistening in the light. But as soon as I lifted my hips into my first downward dog, my tranquil train was immediately derailed.

I craned my neck over the sea of human pretzels to see what the teacher was doing, but even then I couldn’t fully understand how on God’s green one how anyone was able to move like that. The pregnant woman next to me was bent in half and standing on one leg, while I struggled to reach the floor with my fingertips.

How is any of this relaxing? My quivering body and panting breath, coupled with my wandering mind, was wreaking havoc on my psyche. Every ounce of sweat that accumulated in my ass crack was a liter of confidence lost. Every new pose was another chance for me to try and fail miserably in front of a room full of Sanskrit snobs.

I muscled through the stretching and bore the balancing poses, and was finally rewarded with some guided meditation. I couldn’t tell if my body was grateful for the workout, or grateful that it was over. I laid on my back, trying to hide my defeat, and tried to clear my mind. My calm was abruptly ended by a gong, I gathered my things, and I limped out of the studio. And if you think that I ever went back, yoga-tta be kidding.

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Ali Hin

A born and raised Jersey girl, she can always be found covered in sand and pizza sauce. Her personal brand is "that girl." She prefers wine in bottles because she thinks outside of the box. Send fan mail to or by smoke signal.

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